


Just Let Me Leave a Note

by loopyhoopyfrood



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Death Note AU, F/M, but it wasn't my idea so you can't blame me, definitely the weirdest thing I've written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 12:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10437510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loopyhoopyfrood/pseuds/loopyhoopyfrood
Summary: She couldn't bear to look at Jack, because she couldn't bear for it to be her last chance to do so.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiritusIgnis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritusIgnis/gifts).



i.

“Just let him go. Please.”

“Phryne-”

“Please.”

She didn’t look at Jack, she couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to see his eyes pleading with her, his hands struggling to break free of the silk binding him to the chair. Couldn’t bear to see the bruises on his face, or the blood staining his tattered shirt. Couldn’t bear to look at him, because she couldn’t bear for it to be her last chance to do so.

“Please, you can have me. Just let him go.”

Instead she looked at the only other man in the room, steadfastly keeping her gaze fixed on his face rather than letting it drop to the black gun she knew he held in his hand. Gone was her bravado, gone was her wit and charm. There would be no talking her way out of this one, no handsome policeman to rush in and save her.

No way for her to save him.

“What, so he can run off and fetch his pals? I’m not an idiot.”

“You still have me.” Phryne was practically begging by now, knowing in her head that there was nothing she could say to make him put down the gun but unable to stop trying. “He won’t do anything, I swear.”

“Can’t trust a copper.” The gun swung towards Jack and Phryne’s already rapid heartbeat turned even more frantic, and it took everything she had not to follow the weapon with her eyes, to keep looking at the man who was going to kill them both.

“Plus, well, you know how it goes. You’ve both seen too much and all that.”

The hand holding the gun made a vague gesture to emphasize his point, and Phryne couldn’t help but flinch. The next moment the gun was steadied, and her legs trembled in relief beneath her long skirt as it came to rest pointing at her chest. If it was being aimed at her, it wasn’t being aimed at Jack.

Then the safety was released, and she remembered that she wouldn’t be able to stop him shooting Jack once she was dead.

“Please.”

Her mouth was moving before she’d even thought about it, the words running away from her in desperation.

“My daughter,” She only realised she was crying as tears began to fall onto her cheek, and she still didn’t have a plan, not properly, not enough of one, “I just want to say goodbye to her.”

“I’m not-” He was becoming tired of her excuses, of her stalling for time, and his finger was tightening around the trigger.

“A note!” She was crying freely now, and Jack was saying her name but she still couldn’t look at him. “There’s a notebook in my bag, please. Just let me write my daughter a note.”

She’d read the casefiles, knew he had a daughter somewhere, knew he’d never gotten to say goodbye.

“Please.”

The seconds that followed were the type that stretched out far beyond their reality, making Phryne acutely aware of the breath that stuck in her throat and the beat of the wooden chair legs on the stone floor that told her Jack was still struggling.

“No tricks.”

And suddenly Phryne could breathe again as her purse landed in her lap. The gun still focused on her heart, and her hands shook as she pulled out the thin black notebook. The purse dropped to the floor once she found a pen, and she held it slightly too tightly as she recognised it as one of Jacks. As the first drop of ink hit the blank page, she finally allowed herself to meet the gaze of the man she loved.

“I’m so sorry Jack.”

 

ii.

She wouldn’t have even noticed the notebook if her foot hadn’t pressed it further into the puddle as she left the jail. She could have handed it in, she supposed, but she wouldn’t have stepped back in that building for all the money in the world. She wasn’t even sure why she picked it up.

She’d forgotten about it by the time she reached her parlour, too preoccupied with pouring herself a tumbler of whisky and curling into the corner of the window seat, staring out at the street as she pretended not to notice her hands shaking. Four measures later, each more generous than the last, and her hands were finally still, her body too numb to continue any outward sign of her lost composure. She gazed out of the window unseeingly, failing to notice the growing darkness until the parlour lights were suddenly brought to life and a gentle hand was softly removing the empty glass from her own.

He didn’t believe her reassurances, but his sense of propriety was too deeply ingrained for him to comment anything more than a simple _‘goodnight miss’_. The door was closed, the lights left on, her employee gone as silently as he had arrived, and Phryne was left with empty hands and a sudden, acute awareness of the dampness of her cheeks.

Slowly she uncurled herself from her windowsill vigil, stretching out the ache in her body that she couldn’t solely attribute to her hours of stillness. She couldn’t think about tomorrow, couldn’t think more than one step ahead, and so she focused on her immediate need. Taking that first step, the clack of her heel surprised her and she paused to pull off her shoes, placing them neatly side by side below the window. Satisfied, she padded across the room to the armchair where she had left her purse, and rummaged around it for a handkerchief.

Instead, her finger brushed leather, and she pulled out the black notebook with furrowed brow. She couldn’t remember why she’d picked it up, why it had seemed worth the effort in the aftermath, but right now it was a distraction, and so she ignored the wetness of her cheeks and instead sunk down into the armchair to flick through the pages.

Her first thought was that it was a joke, of course, a prank, and if she had been in her right mind she would have laughed it off and discarded the thing. Her emotions were too raw for logic, however, and although she couldn’t admit to even the slightest belief, the anger, the grief, the hatred that had all been elicited by her trip to the jail still bubbled, driving a desperation that found her reaching for a pen and turning to the first blank page.

When the papers the next morning announced the suspicious death of one Murdoch Foyle, Phryne found her breakfast making a reappearance. Yet, as she gently washed her face, still not fully able to believe the notebooks instructions had proved true, she could not bring herself to regret it.

 

iii.

“Phryne.”

“It’s going to be okay Jack, I almost have it.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” She lied, tears silently streaming down her cheeks as her fingers fumbled with the two pieces of thin metal inserted into the lock on the door. Somehow she couldn’t bear to look, maybe if she didn’t look at him he wasn’t dying, if she didn’t look she could forget the blood that stained his shirt and the pain that clouded his eyes.

“Phryne.”

“What is it Jack?”

“You need to go.”

Jack’s gasped words barely registered as the lock finally clicked. Phryne stood, purposely avoiding the body on the ground with both her eyes and her feet as she pulled the door open, her knees trembling with relief as she took in the empty stairway ahead of them.

“Leave me, go.”

Without thinking Phryne spun to face the man she had been so convinced she was about to lose, already arguing even as she blinked back tears as his appearance reminded her that they were far from safe.

“You cannot be serious.”

Her hands made quick work of the silk restraints despite her trembling, and as soon as each knot was undone she snatched her fingers away and moved to the next, letting the fabric fall away from her as if poisoned.

“I’ll be slow-” Jack let out a grunt of pain as Phryne wrapped an arm around his waist an attempted to lift him from the chair. “-be quicker if you just…”

“Not happening Jack.” She attempted nonchalance, attempted confidence, yet didn’t even need to look at Jack’s face to know she failed. “I almost- I’m not…”

“Okay.”

His hand joined hers at his hip, his palm resting on the back of her hand as their fingers intertwined.

“Can you walk?”

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

Jack’s mouth curled up in what could almost be considered a smile, and for a moment Phryne thought it was her who was likely to collapse as a wave of relief washed over her. She knew that he was feigning for her sake, knew his injuries were far more serious that he allowed himself to express, but his smile, no matter how forced, allowed her to breathe for what felt like the first time since the bullet had entered his shoulder. They weren’t okay, but now that their escape was only a stairway away, now that there was a possibility of them walking away from this, she could allow herself to hope that they would be.

It took a second attempt, but eventually she got Jack into a position that could almost be considered standing. He was heavy, unable to do much more that simply lean on her as she practically dragged him from the room.

She couldn’t have said how long it took them to reach the top of the stairs, but she knew it was too many minutes, too many stumbles, too many rests. Yet eventually they were through the door and out of the building, and she couldn’t hold him up any longer as he collapsed onto the cold street. She was screaming, shouting for help, blood staining her hands as she pressed them into Jack’s stomach. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t even groaning in pain, and suddenly there were people, and then an ambulance, and then her hands were pulled away and Jack was gone and she was being led, an arm around her shoulder, and all she could do was call his name as she cried.

It was only later, as she allowed herself to be soothed by the steady throbbing of his pulse under her fingertips, that she allowed her other hand to brush the cover of the black leather notebook now safely returned to her purse. Looking down at Jack, asleep in the hospital bed, her hand tightened in his.

She couldn’t regret the second name etched desperately underneath the first, not if it had protected the life of the man she loved, but she desperately hoped she would never have to add a third.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how it happened, but a conversation with @SpiritusIgnis lead to her challenging me to write a Miss Fisher/Death Note crossover. I don't know if I'd really class the result as a crossover, it's more just a 'Phryne has a notebook that can kill people', but it's still probably the oddest thing I've written.


End file.
